


As Wonderful As Sunsets

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Leaving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sunset is an end, and a beginning. A getting over it the one day, a return the next. Gary's got to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Wonderful As Sunsets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redluxite (harlequindreaming)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequindreaming/gifts).



> Payback to harlequindreaming for the Beville feels that she left in whatsapp which were TOTALLY UNCALLED FOR AND TOTALLY UNNECESSARY. SO GO HUG A CACTUS.  
> I really liked the motif of sunsets as a sort of cyclical start/end/start again thing. Which is ironic because I'm really not satisfied with the ending, but it's 2am and ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Disclaimer: none of this is real also I don't own the rights to LotR even though I wish I did.
> 
> "People are just as wonderful as sunsets if you let them be. When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying, “Soften the orange a bit on the right hand corner.” I don’t try to control a sunset. I watch with awe as it unfolds." - Carl Rogers

**Five.**

They’re singing his name. Round and round the stands, as Old Trafford gets swept up in the waves of nostalgia that batter its doors. Gary hears it (he isn’t deaf) (he hasn’t been chanting it himself, under his breath, almost absent-minded for the past seven years) and grins, he supposes, because there’s nothing to be done.

The sun’s crept past the horizon, these chilly European nights, as Gary leads the team out onto the pitch. Standing ovation. Rousing ovation. Tonight is all about one player, has always been, will always be. Later he will hold David’s hands, the black substitute jacket covering the red of his kit (heart). They will talk and he will make David laugh, and perhaps tomorrow they could watch the sun rise.

But for now, there is a game to be played. He doesn’t once glance at the bench, just clenches his fist, his jaw, stares down Milan instead. The BBC reporter writes: _Goal! Rooney scores! 1-0 to United. The assist came from Gary Neville._

David’s subbed on in the sixty fourth minute. Gary’s subbed off two minutes later.

 

**Four.**

He can feel it – can’t explain it, but feelings aren’t meant to be explained, are they – a shiver in his bones. They’re all still sat together, Scholesy and Giggsy and Butty and his brother, and Becks, but this time leaving Becks to the last isn’t because he’s special (of course he is). 

He could feel it for the longest of times. Becks was never really one of them, was he? Leather seats, posh haircut (Posh, come to think of it). Gary had his pasties and wooden spoons. He didn’t know what else he could give. 

The doorbell goes, right past seven. Gary jumps up, damn near trips himself as he gets the door, wondering why the hell he cares so much (children ought not to be given balloons. They just end up loving something that will fly away). David is on the doorstep, one hand clutching a tub of popcorn, the other reaching out and ruffling Gary’s hair as he waltzes in. 

“What’re you putting on tonight?” he says, leaning back on the sofa and stretching his arm out in invitation. Gary flips on the disc and RSVPs, drawing first blood from the tub before David can protest. 

“Return of the King. One of your favourites, innit?” 

David laughs. A you-know-me-so-well laugh. An I-love-this-just-you-and-me laugh. Maybe even just an I-love-you laugh. 

On screen Samwise Gamgee looks at Frodo Baggins and says, “don’t go where I can’t follow.” Frodo’s staring off unseeingly, already distant, already lost. Off screen, Gary Neville looks at David Beckham.

 

**Three.**

David tells the team. It’s been a long day of training and everyone’s in the dressing room, getting ready to go home, and he comes out with it. Sheasy thinks it’s a wind-up, like the haircuts and the suits. Ole’s the first one to wish him all the best, ball of happiness that he is and all that. Someone calls for champagne, someone else has butterfly stickers as an inside-joke goodbye. 

Talk turns to Madrid and how sunny it is there. No more rain in Manchester, no more miserable pasty shops and endlessly dull cuisine – hot spicy tasty instead, and some of them are already thinking _Becks should’ve done this earlier, shouldn’t he, Spain suits him to a T._ Some of them are also thinking _Manchester’s for the steadier lads. The grounded ones. Who’d never leave, maybe because they’re loyal, maybe because they’re scared._

Giggsy’s not looking at Becks. He’s looking at Gary, who’s sat silent in a corner, neither joining in the celebrations nor condemning them. Clenched fist, clenched jaw, just looking, and Giggsy takes a step back to breathe. He’s known Gary twelve years, and this is the first time he’s seen the fire die in his eyes.

 

**Two.**

Not a word said, and it’s been a day now – that’s twenty four hours – David can’t even remember the last time he’d gone that long without speaking to Gary. (Clingy little shits, aren’t they.) (David doesn’t know how easy it is to cling across borders.) He’s got one hand on the phone and is just about to speed dial two when there’s a knock on the door. 

Gary doesn’t see David at first. He sees the suitcases on the floor, half stuffed with shirts whose sleeves dangle out of the side. He sees empty shelves that used to hold books and medals and the stupid wooden carving he bought David back from Barbados. He sees a bucket of paint on the edge of the staircase. 

David says “Gary” exactly the same time Gary says “stay”. 

David raises an eyebrow. Gary feels like strangling him. He wants him to say it, doesn’t he, the little shit. The eyes are too piercing and Gary looks down at his feet, trying to tame the tremor in his voice that’s shaking like a long, drawn out violin note, thin and reedy in the end. 

“Don’t go.” Not where I can't follow.

He looks up at David, _the_ David, _darling of the world_ David, _the new Galactico_ David, _his_ David. He knows that the answer he wants is impossible, that there is too much a gulf between rain and sun, but he tries anyway (he always does). “Please don’t go.” 

Maybe if he says it enough times some sort of divine intervention will ensue and the Gods will make him stay. Gary licks his dry lips. “Please don’t go.” Shuffles his feet. “Please don’t go.” Inhales sharply. “Please don’t go.” Laughs nervously. A you-know-me-so-well(-like-no-one-else) laugh. An I-love-you laugh. 

David opens the door a little wider, arm stretched in invitation. Gary meets his eyes, feels like shouting crying jumping banging crawling begging taking everything at once and nothing at all. If he’s not careful he’s going to be home late for dinner. He turns around and walks to his car, and goes.

Three weeks later so does David.

**One.**

It’s the end of the day and Gary’s sat in the dressing room stripping off his socks, stinky and sweaty, rolling them up to do the laundry later. Training really put them into their paces today, and he knows he’s not as talented as some of the other lads; difficult not to spot the special ones, the Welsh lad and the blonde boy and the nutty hardcase with a name to match. 

But it’s okay, because he’s looking down at his stinky and sweaty jersey, and it’s red and it’s got a crest on it, and he’s doing all right. Who wouldn’t be? He’s playing at Manchester United. “Manchester fucking United,” he says under his breath, rolling the words around his mouth like he can’t believe it (and he still can’t).

"Still trying to wrap my head round it, to be honest," says another voice that makes Gary jump. The blonde comes over, sporting a ridiculously cheeky grin that makes Gary regret being born; you only ever ought to have either looks or talent and it seems unfair that he’s got both. "Man United! Only a dream come true!" 

Gary looks up and sees him properly for the first time. "Isn't it," he says fervently, a fire burning bright in his eyes. "I keep having to pinch myself to believe it." 

"Didn’t catch your name,” the boy says, sticking out his hand. “You’re one of the brothers, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah. Neville – Gary Neville.” Gary takes the offered hand and shakes it firmly. “You’re David, right?” 

The boy laughs. “Call me Becks. Everyone does. Only the family call me David anymore. Pretty stuffy, innit?” 

“Becks.” Gary grins too; the laughter is infectious. “It’s nice to meet you, Becks.” 

“You too, Gary.” Becks grabs his bag and runs out of the room, sticking his hand out in a wave goodbye. “See you around, eh?” 

Gary watches him go, still grinning like an idiot. Phil comes round and gives him a customary smack on the head, but he can’t quite stop himself and doesn’t know why. He can feel it - can't explain it - but there's this  _feeling_ , that things are going to be special and stay special and stay. He's thirteen, he's playing with some of the very best lads, he's got some top quality football, he's at _Manchester United_. Who would ever want to leave?


End file.
